Spring in Seoul had a way of sneaking in quietly. The cherry blossoms on the streets near Ha-rin's apartment fluttered down like snow, and the air smelled faintly of rain and asphalt. The soft pink petals piled on the sidewalks, and from her bedroom window, Yoon Ha-rin could see a small group of kids laughing under a tree, snapping photos with their phones.
Ha-rin adjusted the strap of her school bag and glanced at the clock. Seven forty-five. Ten minutes until she had to leave. Perfect.
She had packed her bag the night before: notebooks in order, pens aligned by color, a folder for each subject, and a lunchbox with her mother's homemade kimbap tucked carefully on top. Every item had a place, every minute of her morning planned.
Everything in her life had a place.
That was the first rule of surviving high school as the responsible, organized, "model student" type. Grades first, university next, dreams later.
Her mother knocked on the door.
"Ha-rin, breakfast is ready!"
"I'm coming," she called, grabbing her phone to check the bus schedule. The subway would be crowded, like always, but she had memorized the car order to guarantee she would have space to stand near a pole. Efficiency was everything.
She took one last glance at her reflection in the mirror. Hair tied neatly, uniform pristine, bag zipped. Perfect.
And then, as she stepped out the door, the perfect routine started to wobble.
The first bell at Eungwang International High School rang sharply. Ha-rin walked through the glass doors of her classroom and immediately sensed a disturbance in the usual order of things. Desks weren't quite aligned; the teacher, Mr. Kim, looked slightly distracted. And… there was someone sitting in the middle of the second row, looking completely bewildered.
Ha-rin froze.
He was tall, just a little taller than most of her classmates, with dark hair falling into his eyes. His uniform was neat, but the tie was crooked, the blazer a size too big. He looked… lost.
And then he stood up, glanced around, and froze again.
The entire class turned to stare.
"Is he… a transfer student?" one girl whispered.
Ha-rin instinctively straightened her back. Transfer students always caused trouble — mostly administrative chaos and confusion, occasionally bringing excitement to an otherwise ordinary school year. But she could handle it.
She approached cautiously, clipboard in hand — metaphorically, of course. No one had a literal clipboard, but Ha-rin could have carried one.
The boy's eyes met hers, wide and uncertain, and then he bowed — stiffly, awkwardly, in the wrong direction.
Ha-rin blinked.
"Uh… hello?" she said in English, because the boy didn't respond to Korean.
He opened his mouth. "H-hello." His accent was soft but thick, unfamiliar in a way that made her ears strain slightly.
"Are you… Arjun?"
"Yes," he said. His English was careful, deliberate, like he was constructing each sentence in his mind.
Ha-rin nodded. "I'm Yoon Ha-rin. I'm assigned as your orientation partner." She gestured toward the desk next to hers. "Sit here. I'll… explain."
Arjun hesitated, glancing around at the strange room. He noticed the hanging posters of school rules, a map of Korea with pins, and students whispering behind their hands. Finally, he exhaled and shuffled over.
"Okay," Ha-rin started, pulling out a small sheet of paper she had scribbled notes on. "First, class schedule. You have math, science, English…" She paused, noticing the boy's furrowed brow. "Do you… understand this?"
Arjun squinted. "Some… English… yes."
Ha-rin suppressed a sigh. This was going to be harder than she thought.
They spent the next ten minutes walking through the schedule. He nodded politely at every explanation, occasionally tilting his head in confusion, but trying hard to memorize the words.
"And… lunch," Ha-rin continued, "the cafeteria. You need to… scan the card, then choose meal. Korean food is spicy, sometimes too spicy. If you can't eat, I can help."
Arjun's face lit up faintly. "Spicy… okay."
It was a small victory. Ha-rin couldn't help smiling. He looked so tiny in his confusion, but determined.
The next few days were a blur of English phrases, corrected bowing techniques, and repeated trips to the wrong classroom. Every day, Ha-rin found herself explaining something new: which subway line to take, which convenience store sold the best tteokbokki, how to politely refuse strangers in Korean.
And every day, Arjun would smile sheepishly, sometimes mixing up words, sometimes laughing quietly at his own mistakes.
One rainy afternoon, they walked together to the subway station. Ha-rin carried a compact umbrella; Arjun held the edge, trying not to bump into the swinging doors.
"You know," Ha-rin said, "most people don't bring umbrellas this early. You're prepared."
Arjun shrugged. "We… have rain in Chennai, yes. Umbrella… necessary."
Ha-rin tilted her head. His English had improved, but some words still felt slightly off, like they belonged to a different melody. "You have… rhythm in your words," she teased.
He laughed, a low, warm sound. "Rhythm? Is… good?"
"Good," Ha-rin said, smiling. "Very good."
It was one of those small moments — insignificant to anyone else — but for Ha-rin, it felt quietly extraordinary.
By the end of the week, their small routines had begun to form. Ha-rin would wait for him at the school gate in the morning. They'd walk together to the nearest bus stop, talking about everything and nothing — the taste of new snacks, the latest K-drama episode, the frustration of exams.
Arjun would share music from his phone, Tamil songs with strings and percussion she didn't fully understand, but the rhythm was infectious. He'd offer her little bites of his homemade snacks, explaining each ingredient in broken but earnest English.
They weren't friends yet. Maybe not even close. But the space between them, measured in awkward smiles and tentative gestures, was shrinking, day by day.
It was during one of these walks that Ha-rin realized something.
The sky had turned a bruised purple as evening settled over Seoul. Streetlights flickered on, and the cherry blossom petals shimmered faintly in the soft rain. Arjun had paused to show her a video on his phone, Tamil drums playing loudly.
She watched him, completely absorbed in what he was saying, and for a strange moment, she didn't think about schedules, grades, or perfect plans. She just… looked.
And for the first time in a long time, Ha-rin felt like maybe life could be unpredictable, and maybe that wasn't so bad.
Arjun noticed her staring. He tilted his head, grinned shyly. "What… wrong?"
Ha-rin shook her head, laughing quietly. "Nothing. Just… the rain, the lights… everything."
Arjun nodded slowly, as if understanding more than the words could say. Then he held out his hand.
She hesitated. "Umbrella?"
He shook his head. "Walk… together. Rain is… small."
And they did.
By the time they reached the station, Ha-rin's thoughts were tangled. She had always planned everything — routes, schedules, grades, achievements. But now, with Arjun beside her, speaking a language that was part-familiar, part-strange, she realized that sometimes plans weren't everything.
Sometimes, just walking through the rain with someone else was enough.
And maybe… that was how it started. The beginning of something unplanned, gentle, and completely unexpected.